


Harana

by WhatWentWrongWithWalter



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Happy Ending, Harana, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by an Eraserheads Song, Light Angst, M/M, Original Pinoy Music, Rain, Secrets, Serenading, Singing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2020-08-10 16:15:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20138311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatWentWrongWithWalter/pseuds/WhatWentWrongWithWalter
Summary: Aziraphale knows when Crowley is lying. But one lie extends a bit too far, along with a drastic change in Crowley's behaviour. This miscommunication causes their relationship to (almost) break apart.





	Harana

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my 1st Good Omens fic, written in English. I tried my best. Pagod na ako, haha.
> 
> I like putting a bit of Filipino things in foreign fandom works. "Harana" means to serenade. It's a traditional courting ritual.
> 
> Kudos, comments, and constructive criticism is highly appreciated! Hope you enjoy! Thank you, salamat!

For a demon, Crowley is a bad liar. Aziraphale can see through him. A pair of dodging yellow eyes, those fidgety fingers, one bouncing restless leg, the occasional crooked, insincere smile. Sometimes, when he’s quick enough, he’ll hold the demon’s hands— unsurprisingly wet. Even when he pulls away, it’s just as obvious. Aziraphale can read him very well. But, on certain circumstances, for his companion’s sake, he pretends to be clueless. For an angel, Aziraphale sure can act.

Acting does not classify as lying. Deliberately faking, maybe yes. But definitely not evil. To the angel’s understanding, Crowley only lies to cook up a surprise. So he does his best to look impressed and astonished for him. (Most of the time, the angel is clueless.) This boosts Crowley’s self-esteem, makes him beam with the most perfect smiles. The way he laughs, all bright and beautiful, and—oh, how Aziraphale adores it when his eyes glow warmly with enthusiasm. His heart flutters every single time Crowley takes off his sunglasses. It’s become a habit upon arriving in the bookshop. He always hooks it on the middle of his vest, then puts it on before stepping out.

On a stormy night, Crowley asks if he can stay the night. Of course, Aziraphale doesn’t mind a dozing demon on the sofa. The company is delightful. He even replaces the old one to miracle a bigger sofa, a perfect fit for those long legs. Crowley stays longer than usual. Neither beings track down the passage of time, not until they’ve spotted a curve on the left side of the cushion. A perfect fit of Crowley’s head.

At this point, he tries to tempt the angel on miracling a bed for them.

“We can put it in the backroom, move out some books an—”

“Heavens, no! Space for my books are more important than a bed.”

“But you can read any book on a bed. It’ll be comfortable!”

But Aziraphale shakes his head a no. Too cramped. Too tedious. Too much responsibility. Too many excuses, so Crowley doesn’t impose… for now. But every night, he attempts in what Aziraphale now calls “the Bed Discourse.” Crowley always brings up the Bed Discourse the next day, the next night, the next week, and so on. Despite this iron persistence, there is nothing but the same old response.

One night, after dinner, not a single mention about the bed nor the very short conversation they routinely have about it. Crowley puts on the sunglasses. He doesn’t stay over. He leaves just before nine in the evening, thanking the angel for a lovely afternoon.

Aziraphale bids him goodbye with a smile, but after the door is shut, the angel stares at it and stays completely rooted like a statue. Closing his eyes, he turns, leans his back on the door before slowly, very slowly, sliding all the way down on the floor. His smile slumps down, too. He sits with a frozen frown, wondering, why is there a tiny tinge of what feels like… emptiness? Why?

He lifts his eyelids, gazes upon the bookshelves, as if the vast collection had any answer. It doesn’t take long for an epiphany to miraculously hit. _Perhaps_, he thinks, _Perhaps I miss him. Like a book. Yes, he’s like a book. One of my books. Pulled off from the shelves. Placed on the hands of someone else’s, and not mine’s._

“Stop!” he shouts, pulling himself out of the trance. “No need to get all dramatic now,” he tells himself, trying to get up. “No worries. I’m sure he’ll come again. You’ll see. I mean, I’ll see. Yes. Good!”

Outside, the spitting rain begins, accompanied by a humming breeze. Tiny raindrops are dashed all over the shop’s window. Not a single soul passes by. He pulls the curtains down.

A book lies awaiting on his desk. He picks it up, walks towards the sofa, then settles on the right side edge, where Crowley’s feet would’ve— should’ve— been positioned. He glances at the pillows, thinking about the possibility of a bed, before sweeping the idea away.

It’s still drizzling when Crowley knocks the following day. It jolts Aziraphale, who accidentally has fallen asleep on the sofa, while reading. Discombobulated by the fact that he slept in the middle of a book, the angel clumsily stands and sprints towards the doors— but trips midway. The floor catches him, face first. With a groan, he snaps. The doors unlock, swinging wide open.

“Tell me you shut the windows at the back? It’s pouring like— oh, fuck! Angel! Are you alright?”

However, Aziraphale gasping, “Oh no! Oh my goodness!” while trying to get up, is enough a hint for Crowley to snap his fingers. Then, the banging sound of window panes follow after.

“Th-thank you, my dear.”

“No problem, angel,” he helps him stand. “Say, I, uh, brought some biscuits.” He takes off his sunglasses, then shows him the box. Assorted biscuits, precisely.

“Oh, how lovely. Would you like me to make some tea, too? Wait, what time is— oh! Didn’t know it was… noon already? And… still raining?”

“You really lose track of time when you read, angel.”

“Why, y-yes, yes, of course… Reading…”

“Do you have any other plans besides being cooped up in here?”

“Reading, my dear friend, is travelling without a real ticket!”

“So, mind telling me where you’ve flown to while I was away?”

The drastic rain makes it hard to hear one another, but that doesn’t stop them. Time leaps, hour by hour, and the two ethereal beings talk and laugh, while eating and drinking, simply living in the moment. No customers have walked in, possibly thanks to the rain. The gloomy afternoon shifts into a cool night with no stars. The box has been emptied (mostly by Aziraphale, of course), but their stories have no ending, jumping from one anecdote to another.

In the middle of a joke, Crowley’s phone abruptly cuts the air with the sound of rock. He fishes it out of his pants pocket and his eyes grow wide.

“Oh.”

“What?”

“Gotta go now, angel.” He puts his sunglasses on.

“What? Why? Do you have other plans for tonight?”

“N-no,” but he gives a crooked smile before looking away. “Nothing. Just… sleepy.” He successfully fakes a loud yawn.

Aziraphale nods, pretending to believe. Hoping to be more convincing. Surely, Crowley has his reasons. He wonders if he’ll ever tell it.

_It’s alright to have some secrets_, he reassures himself. _After all, there are some things you’ll never say so yourself… _Like the crawling emptiness seizing him for the second time now. It gnaws a hole in his chest.

He watches Crowley step farther and farther. His tall dark figure merges with the night until swallowed entirely, out of sight. _Ah, there it is again. The loneliness._ Aziraphale cannot help but feel like a single raindrop, isolated among all the other drops that pour from the same sky, plummeting on the ground, without a sound.

Everyday, they meet. And every night, just before nine, Crowley leaves without an explanation. As if running away. As if keeping him out of God-knows-what. His smile, his silence, all of it smells like a mystery. He no longer stays like he used to. He doesn’t bother bring up the Bed Discourse anymore.

On lonesome nights, Aziraphale finds himself afloat, tripping on the edge of sleep. He rarely feels drowsiness, because books keep him alive, but nowadays, he fails to focus on anything, fails to absorb one paragraph after another. He shuts his eyes and gives in to the solitary darkness. In the wide sheet of blackness, there lies ugly thoughts.

_Maybe he no longer enjoys my company. _He opens his eyes, but they droop again._ Maybe it’s the bed. Maybe it’s the shop’s odd smell. Maybe he found something else. Something better. Someone better? Maybe… maybe it’s me? What’s wrong with me?_

The loneliness turns to emptiness. The emptiness becomes a void. He senses a strong pull, about to capture his entire soul— until one night, Aziraphale decides, he cannot succumb into pure numbness.

On the night he plans to cut him off, Crowley asks him out for dinner. He begrudgingly accepts, giving in to the pleasure of food. They shared a big warm bowl of pesto and a bottomless pitcher of iced tea. Both are unusually quiet.

_This is harder than I thought_, he admits, while noticing Crowley’s leg, restlessly bouncy underneath the table. He’s certain that something is up, but makes no comment about it. After they bill out, they walk in silence. Aziraphale tries to compose his thoughts, his wordings, and just when he is ready to speak, his feet abruptly halt, his breath is held.

There’s a candy store at the corner. Crowley follows his eyes, then understands.

“Want some chocolates?”

Aziraphale pouts, but doesn’t reject the offer. Soon, very guiltily, a bag of chocolate rocks is shoved in his pocket.

They’ve reach the street where Crowley’s apartment is. Aziraphale looks at him and says, “Oh, you don’t have to walk me back. No worries.”

“Well, I always do, don’t I?” Crowley still continues to walk next to him.

“You can turn to your street now,” the angel stops. “I’ll be fine on my own. Thank you!”

“It’s not late. I can spare some time, with you.”

Flustered Aziraphale accidentally slaps the demon on his shoulder. He pulls back, silently praying to Almighty that his face isn’t obviously tomato-red with embarrassment.

“S-sorry."

“S’alright.” Crowley steps forward, putting a hand on his shoulder, but Aziraphale steps back.

“No. Crowley. Stop.”

“I know it’s just a playful slap, you don’t mean to—”

“I said stop. I… I… I’m going home. Alone. Please don’t follow me. I don’t want to see you anymore.”

“Why? What’s wrong, angel? You can tell me anything.”

“Oh, don’t call me that!” His voice cracks, along with his own heart. His eyes are misting. “You’ve been… You’ve been distant. And I don't know why. Every time you leave, you're in a rush. There's something you're not telling. I don't understand. But, I can tell that you’re… You're hiding something from me. And it hurts."

Crowley quickly crosses his arms. “It’s nothing.”

“Drop the act. Just be honest with me, Crowley.”

He scoffs. “You’re asking a demon to be honest? Do you hear yourself?”

“I’m asking you as a friend. Last chance. Are you hiding something from me?”

There is a full five-second pause before he breathes out a soft “no.” Immediately, Aziraphale snatches his hands and… His heart sinks.

“Sweating. You’re sweating.”

His eyes, swelling with unspoken heartache, paints a wounded expression as hot tears crawl. At the same time, the first raindrops begin to fall. Aziraphale storms off. Crowley’s voice, shouting, beckoning, apologising, blurs in the distance. He doesn’t stop, obstinately pushing against the blowing winds and grumbling rain.

He doesn’t stop, not until he is dripping inside the bookshop. He struggles to lock the door, but his trembling hands are too wet and useless, too broken, too miserable. The key slips down on the floorboards. He bangs the door with his palm in frustration, cries in crescendo, slides down and curls on the floor. His books can do nothing but stare.

A noise interrupts his sobbing. His ears prickle with the new sound. A low vibration mixed with the pattering rain. A tune. Soft. Yonder. Aziraphale stays still. Listens. _It’s near_, he’s certain. The angel stands, follows the sound, wary and careful. _The sound of… strings? And something, someone, humming?_ It emanates from the backroom. _A guitar? _

The windows are moist and hazy, yet he doesn’t need to say a thing to confirm the familiar dark outline. He knows. 

“Go away! I don't want to see you.”

Instead, Crowley sings, _“Lift your head,”_ then begins to strum, _“Angel, don’t be scared. Of the things that could go wrong along the way. You’ll get by with a smile. You can’t win at everything, but you can try.”_

“Are you trying to—”

_“Angel, you don’t have to worry. ‘Cause there ain’t no need to hurry. No one ever said that there’s an easy way.”_

Aziraphale steps forward, closer.

_“When they’re closing all their doors. And they don’t want you anymore. This sounds funny but I’ll say it anyway."_

He presses an ear on the door.

_"Dear, I’ll stay through the bad times. Even if I have to fetch you everyday. We’ll get by with a smile. You can never be too happy in this life.” _

“C-Crowley…” he cries behind the door. “Stop… you're killing me…”

_“In a world where everybody hates a happy ending story, it’s a wonder love can make the world go round. But don’t let it bring you down, and turn your face into a frown. You’ll get along with a little prayer and a song.”_

A pause. He calls his name, knocking. Silence. Another series of knocks. Hesitant, Aziraphale cracks the door open, just a little bit. Crowley, shivering and glistening with the rain, peeps and continues, _“Too doo doo… Too doo doo… Too doo doo du-du-du-du-du-du doo… Let me hear you sing it.”_

“Pardon?”

“Come on, angel.” He plucks, repeating the tune, _“Too doo doo…”_

He points expectantly, encouragingly, and although uncertain, Aziraphale, picks up the melody and answers him in-sync with the guitar. _“Too doo doo…”_

“That’s it!” And they sing the last onomatopoeic line together, _“Too doo doo du-du-du-du-du-du doo.”_

Crowley leads again. _ “In a world where everybody hates a happy ending story, it’s a wonder love can make the world go round. But don’t let it bring you down, and turn your face into a frown. You’ll get along with a little prayer and a song.”_

He blows up at his shades, magicking it to rise above his forehead. His serpent-like eyes are nailed on the angel as he sings, _“Lift your head. Angel, don’t be scared. Of the things that could go wrong along the way. You’ll get by with a smile. Now it’s time to kiss away those tears goodbye.”_

Crowley gently pushes the door aside, he steps in. Aziraphale lets him, lets the drenched demon hold his face. Lets him flick his thumb at the corner of his eyes, lets him kisses his forehead, his nose, his cheek. “I’m sorry, angel,” he whispers, peppering his face with more kisses. “I didn’t mean to push you. It’s just that… I’ve been practising. For you. And I can't do this when I'm with you.”

“You mean, you leave every night… for this surprise?"

"Happy?"

"You could've told me! I was worried sick! And overthinking badly! Got upset over nothing, thank you!”

“Well you heard the damn song, didn’t you? Lift your head. Smile, angel.”

“Oh, you… Did you, erm, did you write this?”

He opens his mouth, then closes, then blurts out, “Yes, yes, for you.”

Aziraphale shakes his head, chuckling. “Oh, heavens, your eyes say otherwise. You didn’t write that at all!”

“Alright, maybe not, but I _am_ about to make something… original.” He snaps. Aziraphale turns around. A staircase appears at the corner of the backroom. “Care to join me upstairs?”

“What? How?”

“Ah, ah, ah! Before you protest and reject, let’s have a look first. Shall we?”

"Alright, but can we miracle ourselves dry first?"

In a snap, they are clean and dry.

Bubbling apprehension boils in the angel's stomach as he climbs up behind the demon. The tension deflates once the room unfolds. They’re standing in the middle of a newly furnished and cozy looking apartment.

The first thing he notices is the make-shift kitchen. The counter and sink are spotless. Next to it, stands a tall and stocky refrigerator. In front of it, a simple round table. The two wooden chairs each have a crocheted cushion on the seats.

A wide bed with plain white sheets sat at the corner to his left, beside a window. There is an unknown object jutting out of the walls. He steps nearer, scrutinizing the flat ledges above the bed.

“Um, what are…?”

“Oh! Floating bookshelves! So you can keep the ones you really love up here. No one has to know!”

“Oh, Crowley…”

“We can add more. How many first edition books do you think can fit? Ah! Also for signed copies. Your poetry books, I’ve reserved an entire shel— Ah!”

Aziraphale throws him off mid-sentence, tackling him with a surprise hug. They tumble down the bed, sink into the white sheets.

“I love it! I love it! I love you!”

Crowley turns to face him and in all seriousness, he clears his throat before asking, “So, let me do this again. One last time, angel. Can I miracle a bed, for us?”

Aziraphale hold his cheek. Without any warning, he plants a kiss on his lips in response.

"That should end the Bed Discourse."

“Well,” Crowley bites his lips, smiling. “So that's a yes? Do you mean it? We can keep this room? You don't have to, if you don't want to.”

“I forgive you,” he answers with a smile, leaning for another kiss, but he abruptly pulls away with a loud gasp of "Oh no!" He stands, digging his hands in his pants pocket. "The chocolates! The chocolates we bought! Oh no! I think they're all…"

"Safe. In the ref, my love."

"Oh?" He walks to the kitchen and opens the fridge. The plastic bag of chocolates: miraculously there. "Oh, thank you."

"No," Crowley stands and embraces him. "I want to feel that thank you right here," he says with pouting lips. "Please?"

Aziraphale brings his face close, but not quite. A ghosting smile, just a teasing breadth away from Crowley's lips, before he presses one deep and long thank you.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry, but "pouting with his lips" can never express "nginuso" perfectly in English. Basta, ngumuso si Crowley for a kiss, haha. Like the pointing lips he does when he was drunk in the series po!
> 
> Crowley approves of plagiarism and stealing, however, the author does NOT tolerate nor endorse such academic dishonesty! (Not even for cheesy purposes of trying to convince your lover to move in together.)
> 
> Below are cited references. The song Crowley sings is entitled, "With a Smile," by Eraserheads. Here is the link if you want to listen to it: [With a Smile (:](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mpGoKtIToW4)
> 
> References:  
Eraserheads. "With a Smile." _CiRcuS._ Musiko Records & BMG Records (Pilipinas) Inc., Oktubre 1994.
> 
> powerpinoy14. "With a smile Eraser heads with Lyrics." Online video clip. _YouTube._ 13 Marso 2011. Web. 9 Agosto 2019.


End file.
